


i never saw it as the start, it’s more a change of heart

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22816522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: Virgil is in the area, apparently having a low-key meeting with Klopp, so Neil suggests they go for a drink. Virgil wants to know more about the club and Jordan knows everything there is to know. Plus, he remembers Stevie’s hand in getting transfers over the line – why shouldn’t he do the same? He agrees, because he’d be a hypocrite not to.He knows Virgil, but only in the capacity of playing opposite him once or twice. Those times were never anything special – maybe he marked him on a corner and noted how tall he was, or caught the striking, sharp cut of his cheekbones. It wasn’t worth writing home about, that’s for sure, but hedoesknow how special Virgil is outside of their brief meetings. He’s been keeping an eye on his performances for a while.
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	i never saw it as the start, it’s more a change of heart

**Author's Note:**

> hello! something nice and soft and a little bit angsty to get us through. happy ending included, i promise.
> 
> this fic is set in 2017. it follows the transfer from the summer (when it didn't happen), to december, when it finally did. if you need any other clarification, please don't hesitate to ask! 
> 
> thank you for reading – feedback always appreciated! xox

It’s their agent that sets the meeting up.

Virgil is in the area, apparently having a low-key meeting with Klopp, so Neil suggests they go for a drink. Virgil wants to know more about the club and Jordan knows everything there is to know. Plus, he remembers Stevie’s hand in getting transfers over the line – why shouldn’t he do the same? He agrees, because he’d be a hypocrite not to.

He knows Virgil, but only in the capacity of playing opposite him once or twice. Those times were never anything special – maybe he marked him on a corner and noted how tall he was, or caught the striking, sharp cut of his cheekbones. It wasn’t worth writing home about, that’s for sure, but he _does_ know how special Virgil is outside of their brief meetings. He’s been keeping an eye on his performances for a while. 

That’s why he’s not sure what to expect when he’s waiting for Virgil to turn up. He doesn’t know what he’s like, only that he’s apparently an okay person – which isn’t much to go on, but Neil had said, “you’ll like him, he’s an alright kid,” and then changed the conversation – and that he’s desperate for a change of scenery.

Jordan can work with that. He thinks he can, at least. 

He’s first to the bar, and gets shown to a table in the corner, quiet and out of the way. The waiter is far younger than him and smiles pityingly like he doesn’t actually believe Jordan when he says he’s waiting on someone. If he wasn’t meeting Virgil for the first time – if he wasn’t so damn _nervous_ – he’d probably tell the waiter where to shove his poncy little cocktail bar.

As it is, he smiles with gritted teeth and purposely doesn’t say thank you, because that’s just about the pettiest he can bring himself to be. He didn’t choose this place and as far as he’s aware, it wasn’t Virgil’s choice either; it was all Neil’s doing. And now he’s begging to whoever’s listening that Virgil isn’t the type of person that enjoys pompously expensive cocktail bars like this one, because Jordan isn’t sure if they’d get along at all.

“Sorry, sorry,” Virgil says, dodging around tables more gracefully than a man of his size really has any right to be. The deep timbre of his voice cuts above the general din of the bar and a few other patrons turn their heads to look at them, scandalized at the noise, but Jordan only has eyes for Virgil right now. “The traffic was a _nightmare_ , and then I couldn’t find the damn place and – anyway. Sorry.” 

“No worries,” Jordan says. His heart is hammering in his chest but his mouth curves upwards into a smile and he stands to shake Virgil’s hand. It’s different seeing him out of a football kit. He’s even better looking, somehow. His tight shirt makes his shoulders look broader, and his entire frame is bigger than Jordan remembers.

“Do you want a drink?” Virgil asks, carefully hanging his coat on the back of his chair. He clasps his hands over it and leans forward to hear Jordan’s answer, waving the older man away when he goes to pull his wallet out of his pocket. “No, no. I’ll get it – it’s only fair, considering I left you waiting.” 

“Thank you,” Jordan says, surprised by Virgil’s sincerity. It’s not anything to do with Virgil personally – it’s just that he’s spent so long around footballers who only have time for themselves that he’s forgotten what a decent person actually looks like. “I’ll get the next round, then.” 

(If he has it his way, they won’t be in this poxy bar long enough to have another round).

“What do you want?” Virgil asks, levelling his gaze with Jordan’s. He’s waiting patiently but Jordan can still feel himself panicking, because he doesn’t normally drink – he can’t actually remember the last time he _did_ – and he doesn’t know what cocktails are considered good. He’s only having one now because there are still butterflies floating around in his stomach, making him nauseous. 

A bit of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss – if you excuse the pun.

“Um,” he says dumbly, feeling his cheeks flush bright red. He glances at the menu on the table but it may as well be in fucking Chinese for all he knows, and he forces himself to calm down and look at Virgil. He’s a club captain, after all. He doesn’t get flustered. “Surprise me, yeah?” 

Virgil grins and nods, knocking the back of the chair with the heel of his palm once before he’s off to the bar. People turn and watch him as he walks; the long, strong line of his body, his soft eyes and his blinding smile, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it. He just leans on the bar, elbows on the glass so he can talk to the barman, and sends a cheesy wink over his shoulder at Jordan. 

He comes back with two delicate glasses in his hands. Jordan holds his breath, half expecting those big fingers to crack the martini flutes. “Here you go,” he says, putting the glass on the table with just as much care as he was carrying it with. “One porn star martini for you.” 

“Right,” Jordan says. He can’t stop his face from heating up at the name, but he holds the stem of the glass between his thumb and index finger, bringing it up to his nose. It seems fruity, at least, and not all that strong, but – seriously. The glass has been garnished with fruit and what looks like a tenner’s worth of gold leaf, and he can’t help but wrinkle his nose at how stuffy this whole place feels. “Cheers.”

“Thought it might be right up your street,” Virgil says, smirking over the rim of his own glass. Jordan raises his eyebrows expectantly and then frowns down at his cocktail, using his finger to push some of the gold leaf away. “Alright. It is a bit too – pretentious, for you.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Jordan says, pouting a little bit. Virgil is grinning at him across the table, fingers twitching against his glass like he wants to reach out and touch but he’s not sure if he’s allowed because he doesn’t know him well enough yet. Well – Jordan wouldn’t complain if he did. “Don’t you think I’m posh enough for this place?” 

“Honestly? No,” Virgil says. His eyes are sparkling with glee and this time, he does reach out, knocking his knuckles against Jordan’s hand to show that he’s joking (although he’s definitely one hundred percent right). “But I’m not either. Those two cocktails cost me a _fortune_. Thought I was going to pass out when the bartender told me the price.” 

“Think they’re called mixologists these days,” Jordan says thoughtfully, glancing over at the bar. His cocktail isn’t _that_ bad, definitely very fruity, but he can only imagine how expensive it actually was.

“Stuck up is what they are,” Virgil mutters, following Jordan’s line of vision. He meets Jordan’s gaze again and pulls a face and the older man can’t help but huff out a laugh. He’s glad they’re on the same page, glad they’re getting on, and he knows that Virgil would be perfect at this club. He belongs at Liverpool. “Are you… Are you that bothered about staying here?”

“God, no,” Jordan breathes, probably _too_ quickly. He downs the rest of his drink in two sips, wincing at the aftertaste of vodka, and gestures for Virgil to do the same. “I live five minutes away from here, and you don’t have to sell your kidney to be able to get a drink. Come back to mine.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Virgil says, a secretive little smile playing at the corner of his lips. He finishes his drink and stands, shrugging his coat back on, and they’ve probably only been here for a grand total of fifteen minutes but it’s already far too long for Jordan – and, apparently Virgil too. “I’m already sick of that hotel room, if I’m honest. Just stared at the blank walls last night, flicking between television channels. It’ll be nice to have a bit of company.” 

The walk back to Jordan’s is nice. It’s a pleasant night, and the late June air is warm on Jordan’s skin. They talk about menial shit: what it’s like to live in the area, if Jordan gets on with his neighbours, and who else lives around here, and their shoulders bump as they walk. It’s nice. Easy.

“So, I can’t offer you a beer,” Jordan says, when they’re in his house. He’s hung his coat up and taken Virgil’s too, and now they’re in the kitchen. Virgil is sitting at the breakfast bar, arms crossed loosely and staring at Jordan, who is standing on the other side – slightly embarrassed. “Because I don’t actually drink.” 

“Okay,” Virgil says, sounding amused. He glances around the kitchen for a moment and then his gaze settles back on Jordan, and he smiles reassuringly. “I don’t need alcohol to have a good time. A cup of tea would be nice, thanks.” 

“Good choice,” Jordan says with a nod, and busies himself making two cups of tea. He pulls up a seat on the other side of the breakfast bar and the conversation returns to the area – Virgil asks about the club, about the owners and the board and about Klopp. Jordan tells him that he doesn’t think they could have better backroom staff, and then Virgil asks about the dressing room. Jordan admits that they shout, but only because they all want each other to be better. There’s never a bad atmosphere. 

It’s easy to talk to Virgil. His laugh is sweet and his smile is graceful, and he’s so tactile. He clasps Jordan’s shoulder, wraps his fingers around his wrist, nudges his shin with the toe of his trainers. He’s funny, too; cheesy little jokes and cutting comments that make Jordan choke on his tea. He likes him. He really, _really_ likes him, and he’s already making a mental note to have a word with Peter about moving the transfer along. 

“So why did you have that cocktail?” Virgil asks, resting his chin on his hands and leaning forward like he’s very invested in knowing the answer to his question. “If you don’t drink, I mean. Why did you let me buy you a drink?”

“I dunno,” Jordan says. He shrugs and he can feel the tops of his ears burning bright red, along with his cheeks, and he stares down at his hands in his lap. Of course he knows, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to admit. “I just wanted to calm my nerves, I guess.” 

“Why?” Virgil asks. His eyes are light and his tone is teasing, and Jordan is almost dreading this conversation. Still, he thinks he can see a little bit of something else hiding in Virgil’s eyes. Something a little more – flirty, if he’s allowed to say that. “Nervous to meet me?” 

“Absolutely,” Jordan says. It comes out more honest than he intended it to, and it takes Virgil aback. He looks shocked, eyes wide as he blinks a few times, but then his face breaks into a blinding grin and the line of his shoulders relax. He looks like he’s finally found what he’s been looking for. 

Thankfully, Virgil changes the subject.

“So –– your accent,” Virgil says, running his thumb through his beard as he stares curiously at Jordan. The older man feels hot under the weight of Virgil’s gaze, but not uncomfortable. “I’m guessing Geordie?” 

“Not a Geordie,” Jordan says through gritted teeth, although he really can’t blame Virgil for thinking it. Either way, it makes him shudder a little bit. His worst nightmare, that. “I’m a Mackem. Sunderland.” 

“Can’t tell the difference,” Virgil hums. He knows what he’s doing though, judging by the shithousery smile on his face, and his fingers inch towards Jordan’s and rap against his knuckles playfully. 

“The difference is that a Mackem would rip your face off for calling them a Geordie,” Jordan says, gently kicking Virgil’s shin under the table. He’s half threatening and half joking, but Virgil holds his hands up in surrender anyway. “You’re lucky you’ve found a nice Mackem – you’re lucky I _like_ you.” 

Virgil just laughs, head thrown back and the long line of his throat on show. Jordan wants to put his mouth there.

He picks up Virgil’s now empty mug just because he needs to do something with his hands, to stop him from doing what he wants. Busies himself with the dishwasher, bending down and carefully placing both mugs into the rack, then turns it on even though there’s only those two things in it. He just needs the distraction.

“Go on, then,” Virgil says. His voice is closer now and it makes Jordan’s breath hitch in his throat, and he turns when he feels a hand on his hip, hot and big even through the denim of his jeans. “Aside from the football, what other reasons do I have to move here?”

Jordan does the only thing he can think of.

He places his hand on the side of Virgil’s face, and kisses him.

Virgil makes a small noise in the base of his throat like he wasn’t expecting it, but Jordan knows he was. He knows he was when his free hand comes to rest on Jordan’s back and pulls him in tight, kissing him so fiercely that it steals the breath from his lungs. He knows he was when he pulls away with a gasp and rests his forehead against Jordan’s, eyes closed and mouth red. He knows he was when he finally looks at him, and smiles like the cat who’s got the cream.

“That’s a pretty good reason,” Virgil murmurs, and leans in again. 

Tomorrow, Jordan won’t remember Virgil hustling him up the stairs or the way he smiled between his breathless laughter. He won’t remember Virgil’s gentle hands when he stripped him out of his jeans or his shaking fingers on the buttons of his shirt. He won’t remember the way he whispered _are you sure_ , and then smiled like the sun when Jordan nodded.

What he will remember is Virgil’s mouth, hot and wet against his skin. He’ll remember how carefully he hooked his hand under Jordan’s thigh and lifted his leg until his knee was riding high against his ribs. He’ll remember that liquid burn when Virgil pushed in, and he’ll remember the smooth groans that Virgil let out when he came.

He’ll remember how it felt to fall asleep on his chest, and will always wish he was back there.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jordan wakes up first. 

He can’t help it, it’s part of his DNA now – he sleeps late and wakes early, because he’s always got things to do. He can’t quite bring himself to complain about it, because he’s living his dream, and that’s enough to keep him going.

Besides, if it means he gets to spend a few private minutes memorising the lines of Virgil’s face, then he’s more than okay with it.

Virgil wakes up slowly, sweetly. He stretches out his long limbs and makes tiny little noises at the base of his throat, turning onto his stomach. His head is turned towards Jordan and he’s smiling before he’s even opened his eyes, hand coming out from under the duvet to rest on Jordan’s bare stomach. Like it belongs there.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, tip of his index finger brushing down the length of Jordan’s happy trail. It makes him shiver, dick jumping to attention, and he grabs Virgil’s hand to slide it up to his chest instead.

“Too early. Need a coffee,” he whispers, keeping his grip on Virgil’s hand tight as he turns to look at him. “What time is your flight?” 

“Not until five,” Virgil says. His hand slides up his chest and over the curve of his shoulder before wrapping his fingers around the side of his neck, shifting until he can kiss him. It’s deep but soft, slowed down by sleepiness, and Jordan can’t help but smile into it. “So you’ve got me for a few more hours yet.” 

“Perfect,” Jordan says, rolling into Virgil’s space. They’re pressed together now, legs tangled and noses brushing, so close that Virgil’s face is out of focus. It doesn’t matter though, because the heat of his body is warming Jordan up on the inside, too. “Think you should go make us coffee.” 

“Er, it’s your house,” Virgil huffs, although he does stretch forward to drop a quick kiss onto Jordan’s lips. It almost feels like they’ve been doing this forever. “I’m your guest. You should be making _me_ a coffee.” 

“Go on,” Jordan says with a pout. He traces his hand from Virgil’s shoulder down the long line of his spine, feeling the contours of his body, and then over the curve of his arse before pulling his hand away to slap it gently. “I’ll make it worth your while if you do.” 

“That’s blackmail,” Virgil mutters. He rolls his eyes but shifts anyway, away from the heat of Jordan’s body until he can sit on the edge of the bed and pull a pair of discarded boxers on. He stands, turning towards Jordan with his hands on his hips, and the older man distantly thinks, _those are mine. He’s wearing my boxers_. The thought shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Milk, one sugar, please,” Jordan says, beaming up at Virgil and snuggling further under the duvet. “You are good, aren’t you?” 

“It’s only because I like you,” Virgil says absently, scratching at his stomach and already walking out of the room.

Jordan’s heart is beating tenfold in his chest and his vision feels blurry, and all he can think is –– _oh._  
  
  
  
  
  
“Man cannot live on coffee alone,” Virgil murmurs, brushing his hand through Jordan’s hair. He stretches forward to kiss him, one knee resting between Jordan’s legs and thigh pressing against his dick. By the looks of it, food isn’t actually what he’s after.

“I’m not hungry,” Jordan says, although it’s a bare faced lie. His stomach is rumbling unhappily, but the thought of dragging himself away from Virgil is painful. He doesn’t want to leave this bed right now.

Virgil rolls his eyes and collapses onto his back. He’s obviously realised that he’s not getting anywhere with this, but his hand is still hot on Jordan’s knee so he can’t be that bothered. He stares at the ceiling, and Jordan watches the beautiful pattern of his chest as it rises and falls with every breath he lets out. It’s so soothing, so mesmerising, and he wants to put his hand there and feel it, so he does. 

“What’s up?” Virgil asks, turning his head to the left so he can look at Jordan. His fingers come up to wrap around the older man’s wrist, thumb pressing hard and grinding against his pulse point for a second, but then he ghosts the tips of his fingers up the inside of his forearm. It almost tickles. “Changed your mind about that food?” 

“If you stop talking about it,” Jordan counters. It’s his turn to roll his eyes now, and he swings his leg over Virgil’s hip so he’s straddling him. He still hasn’t bothered to get dressed again, and normally he’d be so aware of the fact he’s bearing all (quite literally) to someone he’s known for less than a day, but it’s barely registering right now. "You might get something a bit better than food.” 

“Yeah?” Virgil says, face splitting into a grin. His hand slides up Jordan’s thigh and around his hip, smoothing over his arse and then letting it rest there as his nails scratch the sensitive skin gently. “Show me what you’ve got then, little Geordie.” 

Jordan growls, low in his throat, and grabs both of Virgil’s wrists, pinning them above his head. “I’m _not_ a Geordie,” he mutters, and nips sharply at Virgil’s bottom lip, smiling at the breathless laugh the younger man lets out.  
  
  
  
  
  
Virgil hums, pleased and content, where he’s resting against the headboard. He’s got his eyes closed and one hand curled around Jordan’s ankle, thumb rubbing at the sharp point of the bone there. If Jordan had known that feeding him would put him in this blissed out state, he’d have done it a lot sooner.

“Is baby feeling better now he’s had something to eat?” Jordan says mockingly, reaching out to pinch Virgil’s cheek. His hand gets batted away though, and Virgil opens his eyes, pulling a face at him. 

“Fuck off,” he mutters, but it’s not unkind and he doesn’t move away. Jordan shifts closer from where he’s sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed, until both of his knees are pressing hard into Virgil’s thigh. He wants Virgil to know he’s there. He wants to make it impossible for him to forget. When Virgil speaks again, his voice is demanding. “Feed me.” 

Jordan huffs but spears a spiral of pasta onto the fork anyway. He lifts it towards Virgil's mouth and watches the younger man close his lips around it, eyelashes fluttering shut as he chews. It shouldn't be as obscene as it is, really, but Jordan watches through half lidded eyes and presses his knee against Virgil's thigh even harder. "Happy now?" He teases.

"I'd be happier if you weren't so tight," Virgil pouts, knocking his knuckles against Jordan's ankle almost painfully. He rubs the spot apologetically straight after though. "I mean, one piece of pasta? That's all you can spare?"

"Er, you've already eaten all of yours," Jordan says, gesturing towards the empty bowl on the bedside table next to Virgil. Virgil makes a noise of protest and opens his mouth for more food anyway, but Jordan just raises an eyebrow and points his fork at Virgil. "Too many carbs and you'll struggle to fit in your new Liverpool kit."

Virgil doesn't dignify it with a response, just smiles up at Jordan with a soft look on his face. He watches him eat, hand still hot on his skin, like it's something fascinating. Something worth watching. Jordan wouldn't agree, but Virgil seems awed, and his hand slides up Jordan's calf delicately, thumb ruffling through the dusky hairs there.

“I really like you, Jordan,” he says quietly, voice soft and vulnerable like he’s scared to say it. He bites his bottom lip, worrying it to the point it looks painful, and Jordan lets out a small noise of protest. He reaches across Virgil to put his now empty bowl on the bedside table and then gently pulls Virgil’s bottom lip out from between his teeth, thumb smoothing over it lightly.

“I really like you, too,” Jordan says, offering Virgil a smile. He takes it and grins right back, looking like he’s gone dizzy with relief as he tightens his hand around Jordan’s ankle again. Jordan feels like Virgil is holding on for dear life at this point.

“I know it’s only been twenty four hours,” Virgil whispers. He closes his eyes and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and Jordan wants to kiss it, to feel it move under his mouth. Instead, he rests his hand on Virgil’s chest, and the younger man’s other hand comes up to cover his. “But it – it feels real. I think this, you and me, might be the realest thing that I’ve ever felt.” 

Jordan takes in a deep, deep breath, and blows it out slowly. He’d talk if he could, agree and then agree some more, but his throat feels choked off with emotion and his chest is tight. 

Instead, he curls his hand around Virgil’s cheek and kisses him. It tastes like pasta they just ate and it should be gross, really, but – it’s perfect. Jordan can count all the kisses he’s shared with Virgil on one hand at this point, and he doesn’t have a single complaint about any of them. 

Instinctively, he knows that one day, he won’t be able to count them anymore. He can’t wait for it.  
  
  
  
  
  
“I have to go,” Virgil murmurs. His lips ghost across Jordan’s while he talks, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, and he leans back in for another kiss. “I’ve got to go back to the hotel before my flight. Get my bag.” 

Jordan hums, looking down at Virgil’s hand spread delicately across his ribs. It’s almost like he’s keeping him in place so he doesn’t run away, like he’s scared that he’s scared him away – too much, too soon. But he could never. _Never_.

He leans forward and kisses Virgil forcefully, just so he knows.

“I mean it,” Virgil says, pulling away with a breathless laugh. Jordan’s hand comes up to rest on his chest, smoothing out the material of his own t-shirt that’s stretched tight across his broad shoulders. It’s Jordan’s favourite, and it looks more than good on Virgil. He can’t even bring himself to be upset about how misshapen it’s going to be. “You know what Neil’ll be like if I miss the plane.”

“Let me drive you,” Jordan says, brushing the tips of his fingers over the collar of Virgil’s t-shirt. His skin is warm and smells like Jordan’s shower gel, and his entire body shudders out a sigh. He’s never felt more content. 

“Are you sure?” Virgil murmurs, a small frown gracing his face. Jordan smooths out the line between his eyebrows with a careful thumb. “I don’t mind getting a cab.” 

“I want to, okay? It’s no problem, Virg,” Jordan says, taking a step back and smiling at the younger man. He grabs his keys off the side table in the hall and gestures towards the door, watching as Virgil shrugs his jacket on. “Come on, give me directions to your hotel. I’ll even let you choose the music.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Jordan whistles lowly as he walks back into the main part of Virgil’s hotel room.

“Neil really is trying to sweeten the deal, isn’t he?” He says, smirking as he takes in his surroundings. It’s massive, and he’s only in the living room. There’s a separate bedroom off to the side, and a bathroom with a freestanding bathtub on the other side. “You spent the night with me when you could’ve been luxuriating in this suite?” 

“Don’t feel too bad,” Virgil says. He abandons his position where he’s shoving a pair of trainers into his bag and turns to Jordan, fingers tangling in the material of his t-shirt at his waist and pulling him in close. He drops a short, chaste kiss on his lips. “I didn’t mind slumming it with you for one night, but next time we’ll have to find somewhere a little more – upmarket.” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan mutters, pulling out of Virgil’s grip. He’s not really offended, but it doesn’t hurt to play – especially when Virgil pulls him back in, arms around him from behind as he peppers kisses down the side of his neck. “I could always make you walk to the airport.” 

“You’d _never_ ,” Virgil whispers, pressing his pout into Jordan’s skin. They stand there for a moment, silent – and on Jordan’s part, trying to commit it all to memory – before Virgil pats his chest and loosens his grip again. “I’m ready to leave if you are.” 

Jordan swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to think about how little time they’ve got left.  
  
  
  
  
  
He’s got a hand on Virgil’s thigh, fingertips drumming against the inseam of his jeans. He can’t help it; he’s got a new found appreciation for those legs, and he’s trying to make the most of it while he still can.

They’re getting closer. Every so often, planes fly overhead, and Virgil watches them out of the passenger side window with a downturned mouth. On the third time, Virgil covers Jordan’s hand with his own, fingers tangling. 

Jordan sees the sign for Hawarden Airport and suddenly, his throat starts to tighten. It seems like there’s a lot less oxygen in the air, and he blows out a deep breath, twisting his hand so it’s palm up and he can hold Virgil’s properly.

“I don’t want to leave, Jord,” Virgil whispers as Jordan pulls into the visitor’s car park, just outside the airport. In his peripheral, he can see Virgil biting his lip, and his heart crumbles in his chest.

“I know you don’t,” Jordan says, because that’s all he can say without giving too much away. He regretfully untangles their hands to park the car and Virgil’s eyes don’t leave the side of his face, like he needs the contact to survive.

“When will I see you again?” He asks, reaching out and taking Jordan’s hand again. Jordan shifts in his seat to look at him, and notices that his eyes are wet. He brushes the tips of his fingers over his cheek and then across the slightly reddened skin under his eyes, stretching over to place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“Soon,” Jordan says, running his thumb through Virgil’s beard and then up to his bottom lip. He smiles reassuringly, even though his own heart is aching inside of his chest. “When you’ve got a Liverpool shirt with your name on and you’re sitting next to me in the changing room. Then you won’t have to worry about the next time you’re going to see me.” 

“I’ll be sick of the sight of you,” Virgil says with a laugh, but it sounds choked off and his grip on Jordan’s hand tightens.

“Exactly,” Jordan says. He takes in Virgil’s face, the quiver of his bottom lip and his red cheeks, and then when he drops his head, he sighs, hand sliding from his jaw to the back of his neck. “Fuck, come here. Come here.” 

He pulls him in for a hug, tight and suffocating, but Virgil doesn’t seem to mind. He hides his face in Jordan’s neck and curls his fingers in the back of his jacket, like he’s too scared to let go. They stay like that for minutes, hours, days. Jordan couldn’t tell, if he’s being honest, because time just seems to stop when Virgil is touching him.

“It won’t be long, okay?” Jordan says, pulling away and taking Virgil’s chin between his fingers. His thumb brushes through the younger man’s beard, and he drops a quick kiss to his lips just because he can’t resist. “And then I’m yours, whenever you want me to be.” 

“Okay,” Virgil breathes, and kisses Jordan like his life depends on it.  
  
  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s hot in Hong Kong already, despite the fact it’s barely eight and Jordan hasn’t been up long. He’s got training soon and he’s dreading it, because it’s so humid that he can barely breathe and he’s sweating even with the air con on. 

But none of that matters right now. Not when he’s still reeling from Peter’s visit to his hotel room. Not when he knows that Virgil will be heartbroken, six thousand miles away, where Jordan left him. 

He has to call, to make sure he’s alright, and Peter understood. Told Jordan that he’d tell Klopp that Jordan would be late, but that it was fine. He was sympathetic, even, which means that he knows something a little more than he should. Jordan doesn’t have it in himself to be worried. 

It’s barely midnight at home, and Virgil picks up on the third ring. 

“Hey,” he breathes, voice sounding bright. It’s – not right, but Jordan can’t put his finger on it. Why is he so happy? Jordan didn’t expect this. “How’s Hong Kong?” 

“Hot,” Jordan says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He curls his free hand around the mattress because he needs something to hold onto for this conversation. His stomach is rolling with waves of nausea. “How is your preseason? When are you going away?” 

“Oh, they went today – France,” Virgil says. He hums happily, and Jordan can pretty much see the smile on his face if he closes his eyes. “Pellegrino told me I wasn’t going. And I’m training alone, too – that’s a good thing, right? That means I’m coming to you. It can’t be long now.” 

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t _know_.

“Virgil…” Jordan says. He swallows the lump in his throat and closes his eyes, heart cracking in his chest at how cruelly Southampton have handled this. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, but it all makes sense now – they’re not keeping Virgil in the loop with any of this. He has no idea what’s going on.

“What?” Virgil says quickly. The tone of his voice has changed and it sounds fraught with worry, now he’s picked up on how Jordan is feeling. “What’s going on, Jord?”

“Peter’s just been to my room for a chat,” Jordan says, voice quiet and reluctant. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to be the one that breaks Virgil’s heart. He doesn’t want to be the person that causes him that pain. “The deal’s off, Virg. It’s not happening. You’re not coming to Liverpool.” 

“What?” Virgil says, laughing like Jordan’s said something hilarious, but it’s tight and high pitched. Not at all real. “That’s not funny, Jord. You need better jokes.” 

“I’m not joking, babe,” Jordan whispers. He traces his fingers over the speaker on his phone like if he tries hard enough, Virgil will be able to feel the touch all the way back in Southampton. “They’re – I don’t know what they’re doing, but they’re refusing to let you leave. It’s not happening. Not this window, anyway. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” Virgil breathes, but it sounds flat. He’s silent for a long moment, and then another, until it stretches out into a silence that Jordan is too scared to break. When Virgil speaks again, his voice is thick, cracking on every other word. “Well, thanks for telling me.” 

“I’m so sorry, Virgil. I really am,” Jordan says, feeling wetness on his own cheeks. He wipes them roughly, glad that Virgil can’t see him at this point, because he knows he wouldn’t be helping things. He hears a crackle on the other end of the line, and realises that Virgil is about to end the call, so he speaks quickly. “I love you, Virg. I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it, and maybe it’s not the right time, but he means it. He means it and he needs Virgil to know that somebody loves him.

There’s a brief pause, and then the line goes dead. 

Virgil has hung up on him.

He doesn’t move the phone away from his ear for a long time, because he feels frozen. He doesn’t know if that was a rejection, he doesn’t know what it was. His heart is in pieces now, and it’s not just because Virgil is upset. He doesn’t know what’s going on anymore. He doesn’t know how to fix it. 

He does know that he has to carry on, though. No matter what has happened, he has to carry on, go down for breakfast, smile like everything’s fine, and then train. He’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He can do this. He has to. 

After he’s brushed his teeth and put some aftershave on – and in his head, he can hear Virgil whispering about how much he loves the smell of it lingering on the spare pillow – he’s lacing up his trainers, trying his hardest to ignore the tears pricking at the back of his eyes. There’s no point in dwelling on it, he decides, and stands, checking himself over in the mirror.

He purposely leaves his phone on the dresser. He’s not going to spend every minute of the day staring at it, waiting for Virgil to contact him like some lost puppy. He might be heartbroken, but that’s not who he is. He never will be.

But just as he’s about to open the door, his phone chimes, vibrating across the dresser. He can’t help but pick it up, swiping the notification open. It’s a text, from Virgil, and he feels dizzy with relief as his phone vibrates twice more in his hand.

_I know this isn’t your fault. Thank you for telling me._

_I’ll call you when I wake up, okay? I’m sorry._

_I love you too Jord xxx_  
  
  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
  
  
They text. They call. They FaceTime.

They barely spend a minute not talking, even when the season starts. Virgil watches Jordan’s games on the telly, and Jordan watches Virgil’s. They text each other with pointers, about the opposition and their own individual performances, because Virgil might not be wearing the right red shirt, but Jordan still wants him to succeed.

Sometimes, Virgil struggles. Jordan can tell straight away – the light in his eyes was a little dimmer straight after Jordan broke the news, but on those days, the ones where he’s struggling, it’s even worse. 

Jordan can barely get a smile out of him on those days. He knows that things aren’t good between Virgil and his manager right now. He’s listened to Virgil’s hushed words when he’s telling him about all the times he’s been overlooked, or the times he’s been singled out for mistakes that weren’t his fault.

He’s been stripped of the captain’s armband, and he’s finding it difficult. Everything he wanted has been snatched away, and it’s dimmed his light so much that sometimes, Jordan can’t even find him in the darkness. But he loves him. He will always love him, and tells him that as much as he can. Those are the only times that he sees Virgil smile when he’s feeling like that. 

Sometimes, when Jordan answers the FaceTime call, he gets to see the Virgil that walked into that bar the first time they met. He gets to see the Virgil that asked for a reason to move, the one that smiled like he’d finally gotten what he’d been looking for for his entire life, the one that kissed him unapologetically. 

The Virgil on the screen of Jordan’s phone has red bitten lips and a flushed chest, bright eyes and shaking hands. He switches the camera so Jordan can see his legs, restless under the sheet, and then his hand slides lower, fingertips slowly inching under the waistband of his boxers.

Jordan loves that Virgil so, so much. He loves his cheeky quips and his wide smile, his tired eyes after he’s come - even the way _little Geordie_ sounds when it rolls off his tongue. 

Jordan loves all of him, every part and side and facet, and would tell him every single minute of every day if he could. 

Instead, he tells him at the end of every call, and feels his heart grow every time Virgil says it back.  
  
  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jordan has been dreading this fixture. 

He knows that Virgil has too, because every day this week he’s heard about Pellegrino’s little quips about Liverpool as a team. All aimed at Virgil, all of them making everyone else uncomfortable. It’s pathetic, if you ask Jordan, but Virgil is mature enough that he won’t say a bad word about his manager. 

He’s looking forward to seeing Virgil, although they haven’t actually made any plans. Jordan didn’t want to force him to stay in the place where he should have been, where he was desperate to be. He thought it would be too cruel, so he hadn’t asked him to stay over. He’s more than happy to follow Virgil’s lead.

Except Virgil hasn’t mentioned it either. 

He doesn't know what he was expecting, to be honest, but it wasn't this.

They don't see each other before the game. Brief glances and small smiles during their respective warm ups, and all Jordan wants is to reach out and pull Virgil into a hug, but he knows he can't. Instead, when they're lining up in the tunnel before kick off, he stretches across and squeezes Virgil's hand - _helloiloveyouimissyou_. Virgil squeezes back, offering Jordan a small smile, but that's all they can get away with right now. 

Virgil looks awful during the game; heartbroken, betrayed by his manager, and like he doesn't want to be there. Jordan tries not to look too much, because it makes his heart crack a little more each time, and despite how he feels about Virgil -- he loves his team more. He has to keep concentration, and then he can deal with Virgil afterwards. 

They win, but it's bittersweet. Jordan wants nothing more than to be celebrating it with Virgil, but instead, all he gets is a tight smile and a quick pat on the back, and Virgil whispering, _I'll text you_ in his ear. It's the best he's getting, so he takes it, fingers lingering on the muscle of Virgil's shoulder for a second longer than necessary.  
  
  
  
  
  
True to his word, Virgil texts him. Short and sweet, just to say that he's in the away dressing room and everyone else has left, but that's all Jordan needs. He's making his excuses and disappearing within seconds, desperate to see Virgil. To make sure he's alright.

"Hey," Jordan whispers, pushing through the double doors. Virgil is sat on the bench, bag beside him and head hung, and it feels wrong. It's so wrong. Virgil shouldn't be here, in a different room in a different part of Anfield. He should be with Jordan, in the home dressing room, smiling from the space with his name on and commanding the room with his presence. Jordan should be able to look over, to see him, to think _I love you_.

But he can't.

"I told them I was meeting Gini for dinner," Virgil says, finally lifting his head. There's no familiar shine in his eyes, no curve of a smile on his mouth. Jordan misses it so much it hurts, and he takes a tentative step forward.

"Oh," he says, can't hide the disappointment in his voice. "He's already gone, I don't know if he knew about your plans. He never said anything."

Virgil shakes his head quickly, reaching out to take Jordan's hand. He pulls it towards him, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, thumb smoothing over the bumps of his wrist bone. "I was never meeting him. I wanted to see you," he murmurs, nose brushing against Jordan's veins. "They won't notice I'm gone. All night."

"You sure?" Jordan says, pulling his hand out of Virgil's grip. He doesn't go very far though, just enough to cup Virgil's cheek in his palm and tilt his head up, checking for any sign of doubt in his eyes.

"Yeah, I just wanna get out of here," he admits, leaning into Jordan's touch. His voice sounds raw, broken, and Jordan's heart breaks. He doesn't deserve this.

"I'll get you here," Jordan says suddenly, surprised at the ferocity in his own voice. He pulls Virgil in for a hug, the younger man burying himself in Jordan's stomach and his arms coming up to tighten around Jordan's waist. "One day. I don't know when, or how -- but I will. I'll get you here if it kills me, Virgil. One way or another. I promise."

Virgil stays silent, but his breathing is wet and his shoulders are trembling under Jordan's hands.

"Thank you," he murmurs, although it's muffled because he's still pressed right up against Jordan. They stay like that for a moment, and Jordan curls his fingers around the back of Virgil's neck to keep him grounded. "I love you."

"I love you too," Jordan says. He can't stop the smile from spreading across his face, because that's the first time he's heard those words in the flesh. It makes him feel incredible; heart pounding and fingertips tingling. He's never felt like this before in his life. "Come on, let me take you home."  
  
  
  
  
  
Virgil has tucked himself under Jordan's arm, head on his chest and hand on his stomach. The telly is on, but Jordan couldn't tell you what they're watching.

He's too busy focusing on the rise and fall of Virgil's shoulders.

"What do you want to eat?" Jordan asks, pressing a kiss to the crown of Virgil's head. He tangles their fingers and brushes his thumb across his knuckles. It's incredible, how lucky he is. He doesn't know what he ever did to deserve a love like this.

"Can we order?" Virgil asks, tilting his head to look up at Jordan. His nose brushes against the older man's jaw, smiling when Jordan nods. "Chinese?"

"Think I've got a menu somewhere," Jordan says distractedly, tearing himself away from Virgil to reach over to the coffee table. They're still touching, still wrapped up in each other, but the fact they're not holding hands anymore makes him feel cold. Still, he hands the menu over to Virgil and settles back down, kissing his temple.

"What you having?" Virgil asks, scanning through the menu. Jordan doesn't have the heart to tell him that Chinese takeaways usually serve the same thing, whether they're in Southampton or Merseyside. 

"Just a side salad and a portion of boiled rice," Jordan says, one eye on the menu and the other on the look of concentration on Virgil's face.

Virgil peers up at him, face doing something similar to incredulous - eyes squinted and nose scrunched up. It probably isn't meant to be as cute as Jordan finds it. "You what?"

"Salad and boiled rice. It's the middle of the season," Jordan repeats, rolling his eyes. He flicks at Virgil's stomach and pretends that the movement hurt his fingers, grinning when Virgil catches his hand. "We can't all have perfect physiques like yours, you know." 

"I'm sure you can have a cheat day for once," Virgil huffs, flattening his hand on Jordan's stomach. His palm is hot even through the cotton of his t-shirt. "It's not every day you get to spend the night with your boyfriend, is it?"

"My boyfriend?" Jordan asks, a soft kind of amusement coating his tone. He feels- endeared, that's the only word for it right now. All the love is threatening to burst right out of his chest and spill out, all over the living room carpet. There probably wouldn't be any survivors if it did. "Is that what you are?"

"Well, I haven't been with anyone else," Virgil says. He's trying to sound confident but there's a tremor in his voice and his cheeks are bright red, burning hot when Jordan presses his cold fingers to them. "Have you, little Geordie?"

"Of course I haven't," Jordan says, careful as he smooths his hand down Virgil's cheek properly. "Do you really think I'm the type of person that would cheat on their boyfriend?"

The relieved smile on Virgil's face tells Jordan everything he needs to know.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jordan tries to ignore Virgil smirking from the corner of his vision, but it's getting pretty hard at this point.

"Fuck off," he snaps. His words sound a lot nicer than he actually feels right now, but he figures that that's how his voice always sounds around Virgil. "It's not funny."

"It is a little bit," Virgil says, then holds a hand up in surrender when Jordan glares at him. He's still smiling a little bit though, and he reaches out to curl his fingers around Jordan's wrist, always appeasing. "At least let me help you."

"I don't want your help," Jordan mutters, dropping the chopsticks in his hand into the container of rice in his lap. It's still mostly full, because he's barely eaten any, because he can't fucking use his chopsticks. He can practically see the cogs turning in Virgil's head, thinking of white people jokes. 

"You need it, though," Virgil says, sympathy in his voice. He abandons his own food on the coffee table to reach over and cover Jordan's right hand with his own. His fingers are deft, gentle, when they curve around Jordan's, and organise them so he's holding the chopsticks properly. "There, see? That wasn't so hard."

He uses his grip on Jordan's hand to pick up some noodles between his chopsticks, and then lets go, moving his hand away painfully slowly. They hold their breath, both of them, as Jordan lifts the chopsticks to his mouth-

And then the noodles fall back into the container.

"I give up," he says, slamming the chopsticks down and sitting back with a huff. "I'm just going to use a fork before I starve to death."

"Er, no," Virgil says, picking the abandoned chopsticks up and forcing them back into Jordan's hand. He taps the underside of his chin gently with the backs of his fingers, and frowns playfully. "The Jordan Henderson I fell in love with doesn't give up that easily."

Jordan has to concede to that one - but only because he's flushed bright red from Virgil saying those gorgeous words.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I don't wanna fall asleep," Virgil murmurs, blinking sleepily at Jordan. It's already well past midnight and the exhaustion of running around for ninety minutes is starting to set in, but Virgil keeps curling his fingers into a fist and digging his nails into his palm. He doesn't realise that Jordan has noticed. "We have - such little time, and I don't want to waste a second of it."

"I know," Jordan whispers, brushing a stray curl off of Virgil's cheek. He sits up, reaches over to the bedside table for his phone, and scrolls through his Spotify playlists until he finds something suitable. He connects his phone to the speakers and Oasis filters through the speakers. He decided that that was fairly neutral ground, all things considered. Not too soppy, but not too distant. "Me too. But - we don't have to. Not if we don't want to, okay? This is our time. Ours and nobody else's."

Virgil smiles at the words and then falls silent for a moment, listening to the music. His grin starts to grow wider and his eyes sparkle with amusement, and when he speaks again, his voice is light. "Typical northerner," he mutters. 

"Oi!" Jordan says, mock offended. He reaches out to shove playfully at Virgil's shoulder but the younger man catches his wrist, fingers delicate where they're wrapped around the soft skin there. "Thought you loved me."

"I do," Virgil murmurs, stretching forward to kiss Jordan. It's the kind of kiss that makes his toes curl against the bedsheets, slow and hot, and when he opens his mouth, Virgil's tongue brushes against his, taking, claiming. There's no reprieve from the things he makes Jordan feel.

And there's no going back now.

He pulls back with a smile, palm brushing along Jordan's cheek ever so delicately, eyes moving like he's trying to commit every single detail to memory. He doesn't say a word, just touches the lines of Jordan's face; smooths the pad of his finger along his eyebrow, traces the curve of his lips, brushing his thumb through the bristles of his beard. It makes a lump rise in Jordan's throat and he struggles to swallow around it, shifting closer so he can roll into the heat of Virgil's body.

"A penny for them?" He asks, leaning up to press a kiss to Virgil's temple. "What are you thinking about?" 

"You," Virgil answers, always truthful. He curls his arm around Jordan's shoulders and pulls him in tight, until his head is pressed against the younger man's chest and he can hear the faint beating of his heart. It's soothing, so soothing, and he times his breathing with it, one hand planted right on the centre of Virgil's chest so he can feel the comforting rise and fall. "What you mean to me. How much you've changed my life."

Jordan doesn't know what to say, and even if he did know, he wouldn't be able to get the words out anyway. He just traces a finger up the line of Virgil's sternum and smiles, following the contours of his body into the dip of his collarbone, and then back down his pec to brush over his nipple. 

"I don't know what I expected when Neil told me he was going to set up that meeting," Virgil says suddenly. Jordan stops the path of his hand and looks up. The angle is awkward and his neck aches, but it's worth it to see the soft expression on Virgil's face. "But it wasn't this. I never expected to meet you. I mean -- obviously, I knew it was going to be you. But I didn't know it'd be _you_.

"I love you. I didn't expect that. I didn't expect to be here, in your bed, six months later, telling you all this, but I'm so, so glad it was you. And it's awful, you know it's awful. Because I miss you, all the time. Even now, when I'm holding you, I miss you. Because this time tomorrow, I won't have the scent of your aftershave on my skin. I'll start forgetting the details of your face, like the fleck of gold in your left eye or the freckle just below your right ear. And I hate it, but I can put up with it - because I have you. I found you and I have you and I love you, and that's all that matters. That's all I need."

Jordan blows out a deep breath and shifts until he's hovering over Virgil, knees either side of his hips and one hand on the pillow next to his head. His other hand curves around Virgil's cheek, gentle, and the younger man leans into the touch.

He's tearing up, Jordan can see that. The tears in his eyes are glinting in the moonlight streaming through the gap in the curtains, and when he blinks, they fall down his cheeks. Jordan brushes them away with his thumb, pressing a kiss to the corner of Virgil's lips. 

"I love you, too," Jordan says, because anything else he said would be pointless. There's nothing else he can say, no words to explain how Virgil makes him feel. They haven't been invented yet.

He just hopes he can show him instead.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jordan wakes up to the feel of lips on his forehead, and he reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Virgil's wrist before he pulls away completely.

"Did I fall asleep?" He asks, voice quiet and sleepy. He finally opens his eyes and looks up at Virgil, who nods, smiling softly. "Fuck, sorry. I didn't mean to."

"It's okay, you must have needed it," Virgil says. He sits on the edge of the bed, carding his fingers through Jordan's hair, and his smile grows wider when the older man's hand curls around his thigh. "I didn't know whether to wake you or not. I need to go."

"No," Jordan murmurs instantly, forcing himself to sit up. He rubs his eyes, trying to wake up, and he swallows the lump in his throat as he takes Virgil's hands in his own. "Not yet. Don't leave yet. Please."

"I have to," Virgil breathes, eyes tracking every movement as Jordan rises to his knees. He takes the hug because he's expecting it, hands warm where they're pressing against the bare skin of Jordan's back. His nose is cold though, tucked into Jordan's neck, and he's shaking slightly from the force of holding back. Jordan doesn't know what he's holding back. He wouldn't dare hazard a guess. "I have to get back to the hotel before the wake up call." 

Jordan doesn't let go, presses in even closer, nails digging into the meat of Virgil's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. It's hard, and he hitches on sobs, hating the way it makes his voice break.

"How long was I asleep?" He asks, eyes falling closed when Virgil presses a dry kiss to his throat. 

"An hour," Virgil whispers, mouth brushing over Jordan's ear when he speaks. He kisses every inch of bare skin he can find, like he's trying to brand him. Jordan wishes the marks were visible. He wants to see everywhere Virgil has touched him.

"I wasted an hour," he says, hating the way tears prick at the back of his eyelids. He presses a kiss to the side of Virgil's head in apology. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Virgil says, gently chastising. He pulls away far enough that he can hold Jordan's at arms length, brushing his tears away as fast as they fall. "It wasn't a waste for me. You're beautiful when you're asleep - when you're not shouting at anyone."

"Shut up," Jordan says automatically. He's smiling but it's sad, and he drops his head. Virgil shouldn't have to see this. He shouldn't be feeling guilty at all. 

"I meant it," Virgil murmurs, leaning across to drop a kiss to the high point of Jordan's cheekbone. He stays there, nuzzling his nose against Jordan's temple like he's trying to commit his intrinsic scent to memory. "You're beautiful when you're asleep. So peaceful. I would spend the rest of my life watching you, if I could."

"It'd be quite boring," Jordan says, leaning against Virgil's side. The younger man trails his fingers up and down Jordan's bare thigh, through the dusky hairs there, and watches the movement carefully.

"Maybe to you," Virgil whispers, kissing his jaw. He moves his hand to cup around the side of Jordan's head and pulls him in even closer, into a loose hug. He doesn't ever want to leave this spot. "But I love you."

Jordan rubs the back of his hand across his nose and kisses Virgil's clothed shoulder. 

"Suppose I'd better get dressed then," he says, although it's the last thing he wants to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
There's a creeping sense of deja vu crawling up Jordan's spine, except this time, it's worse. 

His heart is in his throat, choking him, cutting off the oxygen supply, and judging by the uneven breaths that Virgil is letting out, he isn't the only one. They're holding hands across the centre console of the car, and Virgil fingers are shaking.

He just wants to make this _better_.

"When will I see you," Virgil says, but it's not much of a question. They both know that they won't see each other until Jordan takes his team down to Southampton. They've compared schedules for hours, until Jordan's eyes were hurting and Virgil had a headache, and there was not a single day for them to spend together. It's impossible. 

"When you FaceTime me, as soon as you get in," Jordan says quietly, trying not to let things get _too_ depressing. He doesn't want to stew in it on the way home, when he's lonely and the car is silent. "And every night after that. I'm always at the end of the phone."

"I meant in real life," Virgil says, although he's smiling slightly at one corner of his mouth.

"I know what you meant," Jordan says, and leaves it as that.

He feels tears spring to his eyes when the car park assistant at Virgil's hotel waves them through, because that means one thing: their time together is over. It was far too short, and leaves Jordan wanting more. It's made the longing even worse, somehow. 

The car comes to a stop and they both just sit there, staring at the tree they're parked in front of. Holding hands and not daring to look at each other. Hoping that something will happen, that Virgil won't have to leave. They both know it's futile. 

"I'm gonna miss you," Virgil murmurs eventually. He turns his head to look at Jordan and there are tears on his cheeks, creating tracks and staining his skin. Identical to his own. "Gonna miss you so much."

"Me too," Jordan whispers, bringing Virgil's hand up to his mouth. He kisses his knuckles and then meets his eyes again, fingers of his free hand curving around Virgil's cheek and brushing his tears away. "I meant what I said at Anfield. I'm gonna get you here, okay? Even if I have to drag you here myself. I'll pay the damn fee. You deserve everything you've ever wanted, and that's what you're going to get. I promise."

"You're too good to me," Virgil says, laughing shakily. His voice is wet, broken, and he pauses for a minute to take in Jordan's face, and then he pulls him in for a fierce hug. It's so tight that Jordan can barely breathe but he doesn't care. He won't be able to breathe when Virgil leaves, anyway. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," Jordan whispers, kissing Virgil's cheek. He lingers there for longer than necessary, but he has a feeling that Virgil won't mind. "I'll see you soon, okay? You won't even notice we're apart by the time we're back together."

It's the biggest lie he's ever told, but Virgil doesn't call him out on it.  
  
  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
  
  
Apparently, the deal is back on.

Peter keeps him updated, constantly sending him emails and popping into Melwood for a word, but Jordan is struggling to believe him. He got his hopes up last time, and all he got at the end of it was his heart broken. 

He doesn't want to put Virgil through that again, either. He hasn't said a word about it, although he must know that Neil has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to try and get Southampton to cooperate. Knowing Southampton though, that's easier said than done.

Still, there's always a tiny seed of hope at the back of his mind. Every time Peter comes into the room, something inside him awakens, but he's always let down. It's not Peter's fault, though. It's nobody's. 

If Klopp thinks it's weird that Jordan is so in the loop with Virgil's transfer, he doesn't say anything. In fact, he only mentions it once, asking for Jordan's opinion on Virgil, and Jordan somehow manages to keep it professional. He doesn't let his feelings get in the way, and that's a relief in and of itself. 

He almost becomes obsessed with it -- not quite, but almost. He checks Sky Sports as soon as he wakes up, in case the deal has gone through overnight and he was asleep when it happened. He checks as soon as he's done with a training session, and as soon as he gets out of the shower.

The worst thing is that it's still early December. The transfer window hasn't even opened yet, and won't for another few weeks.

That doesn't stop him looking, though.  
  
  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
  
  
He's been home for an hour. Training was exhausting, bitterly cold and windy, and Jordan's muscles were refusing to cooperate. Klopp had given up when the snow started falling, heavy enough that it crunched under their boots when they took a step, and sent them home. Jordan was grateful, because his muscles were already aching.

He knows that Virgil didn't have training today, but he's not answering his phone. It makes him panic, to be honest, because it's not like him. He always answers when Jordan calls. He's never even missed so much as a text.

He forces himself to calm down, to not think about it. Reasons that Virgil is fine; he's probably just out with his friends, for lunch or shopping or- whatever. Jordan doesn't know what he gets up to all the time.

Sometimes, he's reminded that they lead their own separate lives like a slap in the face. 

He even goes as far as to text Gini, just to see if he can get a response from Virgil, but Gini is (unusually) not at all helpful. All he says is, _I'm sure you'll hear from him soon 👊🏾_ and then doesn't reply to Jordan's follow up of a line of question marks. 

Neil doesn't reply when Jordan texts him, but that isn't unusual. 

An hour passes, and then another, until it's been four and Jordan feels sick with worry. This is probably the longest he's gone not talking to Virgil since they met all the way back in June, and he hates it. It's not right. 

He knows something is wrong, but he can't work out what. 

He's bordering on hysterical, about to form a search party, when he hears a knock on the door. It's probably Adam, he thinks, trying to convince him to go out like normal, and the words _fuck_ and _off_ are ready to go on the tip of his tongue when he wrenches the door open.

Except it's not Adam.

It's. 

"Hi, little Geordie," Virgil says. "I'm home."

He's beaming, clutching a suitcase and a duffel bag, and standing on Jordan's doorstep expectantly. 

"What?" Jordan says, voice small. He's frozen in the doorway, not sure what's reality and what's wishful thinking anymore. 

"It's done, Jord. The transfer is done," Virg murmurs, eyes half lidded. Jordan knows he wants to reach out and kiss him, but he can't. Not standing in the driveway of Jordan's house. Jordan should probably invite him in, but he's too shocked to move. "That's it. I'm yours, for as long as you want me, and now I don't have to worry about when I'm going to see you again. I'm home. For good."

"Okay," Jordan whispers, still stuck to the spot. He feels tears fill his eyes, and then spill over onto his cheeks, and Virgil's grin widens.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" He asks, fingers flexing on the handle of his suitcase.

Jordan snaps out of it and smiles, although it's still full of shock and a little watery. "It's just that -" he starts, and then clears his throat. "If I let you in, I don't know if I'll ever let you leave."

"Good," Virgil says, rolling his eyes, but the movement is light and giddy. He pushes past Jordan, through the front door, and stops in the hallway, dropping his bag. Jordan turns and watches him, breathless when he looks over his shoulder with a smile brighter than the sun. "Because I was kind of counting on that."

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xx


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